


fell for crime (fell for beauty)

by Byacolate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Biting, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fluff, Size Difference, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 10:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4344425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink meme fill: "There are so few prompts with our dwarf inquisitor filled! I really like the idea of Solas and f!Cadash getting it on. My kinks are size (Cadash is so much tinier than elves and humans), dirty talk, possessiveness, marking, and rough sex but none of those are entirely necessary."</p><p>He tastes nothing on her lips but sticky cosmetic wax, and knows his own will be stained when all is said and done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fell for crime (fell for beauty)

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this prompt](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13890.html?thread=55907394) on the kmeme: "There are so few prompts with our dwarf inquisitor filled! I really like the idea of Solas and f!Cadash getting it on. My kinks are size (Cadash is so much tinier than elves and humans), dirty talk, possessiveness, marking, and rough sex but none of those are entirely nessecary.
> 
> Squicks: noncon, watersports, scat play, and hardcore bdsm elements.
> 
> Anyways, go wild!"

She’s perched atop his desk, not unlike an errant cat, research daintily pushed aside to give herself space. It is attention she seeks, a hand hovering a hairsbreadth from a hidden shard they’d found in the Emerald Graves, and it is attention Solas is tempted to give her. He taps his quill against the vellum as though it will conjure something better - something _more_ \- in his report to Leliana, but Cadash’s thigh is warm by his hand, and the rhythmic thud of her boot against the desk is driving him to distraction.

 

“I’ll say it again,” he says, laying his quill down with practiced grace, “but you cannot take me from my work whenever it suits you.”

 

Solas hopes that she will read him as stern and not, as he fears, hopelessly fond. From the look in her eye, it appears not so.

 

“I’m not here to take you from anything,” she says, and this time her boot taps against the arm of his chair. “I’m just making myself comfortable.”

 

“On top of my research.”

 

“ _Beside_ your research.” She twists about to look behind herself. “Ah. Alright. Perhaps just a little bit on top of your research.”

 

Without warning, she slips the report out from under his hand and lifts it to the meager candlelight, squinting to make out his words. He conjures an orb of light, for which Cadash murmurs her thanks as she takes in his findings.

 

“Well?” he prompts once she’s finished and set the paper aside - far out of his reach. “I suppose it would have made it into your hands eventually. Is it passable for our spymaster?”

 

“ _Is it passable_ , he says.” A smirk lifts the corner of her mouth. Without a sound, she slides from the desk and braces both hands on the chair arms at either side of him. “Don’t I give you enough praise, Solas? Enough compliments to fill the rotunda to Leliana herself?”

 

In this position, they are easily of a height. It would be no feat at all for him to lean forward and kiss the teasing grin right off of her face. Solas reaches out instead and brushes the hair from her temple.

 

“I was asking after the quality of my report,” he reminds her evenly. “But no, since you asked. I don’t think you do. I could always stand to hear more.”

 

Her laughter is a bright, full sound that rises to the top of the tower as she leans in to tap her forehead against his. A quaint, very dwarven gesture. Over time, she’s gentled it from a hearty thump to the slightest touch to suit him. A fair trade for all the leaning and bending he’s done to suit her.

 

“Oh, Solas,” she breathes, overplayed reverence, and shifts one hand to balance against his chest. “Your report was… indescribable.”

 

“But certainly you will try.”

 

With a slight tilt of her head, she leans forward just enough to press her lips to the corner of his mouth. “Incomparable to all other reports,” she murmurs, her hand sliding lower to the center of his sternum.  “Always so much longer than I expect it to be. And so very thorough. You never leave me wanting, Solas.” Her blunt nails dig into the fabric of his tunic, make his stomach muscles jump despite himself. “I am, of course, referring to your unparalleled expertise in reporting your findings for the benefit of the Inquisition.”

 

“Of course,” he parrots, to her ceaseless amusement. Her hand is small, but it is as hot as an iron brand when it slides lower to spread across his pelvis.

 

“I know you’re terribly busy, but perhaps if you were of a mind,” she says idly, leaning back to meet his eyes, “you might wish to join me in my chambers to explore this subject matter in greater detail?”

 

There is a beast in his chest that growls when her eyes go dark, and he can hardly fathom how it has come to this, but his mouth has acquiesced without pause.

 

This is nothing new.

 

“Give me a moment to take this to -” he begins, shifting forward. But she doesn’t move with him - not until after she’s kissed him once, a light, victorious thing, and hopped up. The report is in her hand before he can so much as blink, and she’s off to the stairs.

 

“I’ll take this upstairs,” she calls over her shoulder with a wink. “Meet you shortly!”

 

“Don’t you meet everyone shortly?” Dorian’s voice comes drifting down the tower, and Solas covers his mouth to hide his smile from an empty room.

 

The Inquisitor’s quarters, she told him once, are far too grand for her comfort. Solas keeps to himself tales of palaces floating, shimmering lights, bathing pools lit by stars seven times the length of her room, and paints her walls instead. It isn‘t his grandest work, or his finest, but the colors are bright - more cheerful than his other murals - and it makes her smile.

 

She doesn’t know about the one painted on the underside of her desk, utterly riddled with sigils and runes (for good fortune and health and prosperity and focus, ancient shapes and curves and lines, their power lost to history), but perhaps she will in time. Or perhaps not.

 

He contemplates making himself comfortable in her bed, and has to laugh at himself for the notion. No doubt she would find it endlessly amusing, but he can’t let himself be too easily won. Instead, he peruses her shelves as he has done a hundred times. He finds a tome that holds some interest and seats himself upon her desk not unlike how she’d done his, and this is how she finds him when she climbs to the top of the stairs.

 

“She wanted to talk about it,” Cadash says, coming nearer. “Can you imagine? My advisor wanting to discuss important Inquisition research with me?”

 

“A true mystery,” he agrees, and keeps his eyes on the page even as she comes to stand between his knees. She makes a noise and rests her hands upon his thighs, not in earnest but in thought.

 

“Maybe you should delve into that instead of the arcane,” Cadash says, plucking the book from his grasp and setting it neatly aside. Solas cannot help the wry twist of his lips.

 

“I’m sure that would be wildly helpful to the cause, Inquisitor.”

 

Her nose wrinkles in distaste. His fingers rise to cup her jaw to pacify as he follows with her given name. Though her mouth still purses with displeasure, she allows him to pull her closer until he can wrap his arms around her.

 

He tastes nothing on her lips but the sticky wax of their color, and knows his own will be stained when all is said and done. Her fingers dig into his thighs in a way that makes his nerves jump, and his entire body is at attention. She catches his bottom lip between her teeth the moment they part, her hands sliding to his waist.

 

Cadash is small, but her strength is impressive; she drags him to the edge of the desk like it is nothing, and his whole body burns for it. Solas curls his fingers in her hair and pulls her back. It takes no more than a flash of a moment to take in her swollen mouth, her too-bright eyes and flushed cheeks, and then he sinks his teeth into her throat, freely bared.

 

It wouldn’t be the first time they took one another apart on a desk - or even this one, specifically - but Solas’ neck can’t last at this angle for long, and he knows she strains on tiptoe to allow him the slightest reprieve. He presses his tongue to the mark blooming under her jaw and straightens his spine. “To bed?”

 

Her fingers follow his tongue’s example and feel the bruise out for themselves. The grin she offers is positively wolfish.

 

“I’ll race you.”

 

Her legs are quick, but his are long. She rounds the desk, and he vaults it; papers and books scattering as he goes, but his pulse thuds madly and without concern. The bed is low and covered with furs, a novelty haggled from an Avvar merchant on their trip to the Frostback Basin, and though it is crude and primitive, Solas must admit it has its advantages. One of them is the ease with which he can tumble her onto the wide surface, her laughter high and bright. He knows how it delights her to see his composure lost, to see her own wild hunger mirrored in his eyes. There is color high in her cheeks, her hair in disarray below, and glee he rarely sees outside of this room glows from within as brightly as the mark on her hand.

 

Above all else, this is what he will miss.

 

But that is not a thought for now (and it never is), so he bares his teeth to the mischief in her eyes and lets himself be outmaneuvered onto his back. Cadash sits on his belly, triumphant, her thickly muscled thighs bracketing his waist, and Solas feels young and foolish again. His fingers are long and too thin where they span across her thighs, but they are strong enough to make her shiver.

 

“Take off your clothes,” he says, far more calmly than he feels. Cadash’s tongue flicks out to swipe the smudged wax over her bottom lip and shifts back until she’s perched low on his pelvis. Every move she makes sends little jolts through him, and she well knows it, meeting his eyes as she unclasps her coat from the throat, downward.

 

“Not even a please,” she mutters idly as inch after inch of dark skin is revealed. “That’s gratitude for you. A beautiful woman cajoles you into her chambers, and from there it’s all, Go to the bed. Take off your clothes. Spread ‘em, love, I’m ravenous.”

 

She tosses her uniform jacket toward the foot of the bed and manages the first button of her trousers before he rolls her onto her back without warning. Cadash’s breath leaves her lungs in a short burst and between her legs, Solas looms over. Her knees are caught around his waist, and he uses the vantage point to lean in close, bending her nearly in half. Their noses touch, and Solas presses his mouth to her parted lips. She opens for him like a flower in the throes of spring, but he does not linger there, nosing along her jaw to press a delicate kiss below her ear.

 

“Spread your legs, my heart,” he tells her softly, fingers tight against her thighs. “I am ravenous.”

 

The heel of her boots dig into his flanks, so he sits up to tug them off one by one and toss them over the side of the bed. She‘s wriggling out of her trousers, and they‘re halfway down her thighs before he yanks them off, too. The fluidity of it has her laughing, covering her face with both hands. Each burst of laughter makes her breasts quake. Charmed, he places a kiss in the center of her collar bones and another between her breasts. He spares a kiss to the freckles below a nipple while his fingers creep beneath her smallclothes.

 

“Solas,” she sighs when her giggles have petered out into a low, pleasant hum, “you‘re dreadful. But please don‘t stop.”

 

He noses along a scar carved over her torso, longer than the widest spread of his fingers. It is remnant of her life before the Inquisition, and where it finally begins to fade, he sinks his teeth into her ribs while his fingers find heat of her center.

 

Her hips rise to meet him with mounting enthusiasm, and it‘s his turn to laugh, pressing one hand to her hip and pushing himself up. With great pleasure, Solas gazes into her hooded eyes as two fingers draw slow, deliberate patterns. Her lips part, eyes flutter, and still she makes demands with a calf hooked around the backs of his thighs.

 

“ _I‘m_ dreadful?” he tuts, pressing his slick fingers inside of her just to hear her gasp.

 

“I‘d say so,” she says, somewhat breathless and doing a poor job of hiding it. “You‘re not even out of your clothes yet. Fix that, if it pleases you.”

 

It does please him. So he leans down to kiss her shoulder before he pulls away to tug the tunic over his head. Solas has to step off the bed to attend to his breeches, so he backs away, wolf jaw thumping against his sternum.

 

“No,” she says, and Solas stays his hand upon his belt. Cadash props herself up on an elbow, taking him in unabashedly. With the regality appropriate of her station, she demands, “Slowly.”

 

“And you would call me demanding,” he says, amusement lifting the corners of his lips, but he does as she bids.

 

“I would call you many things,” Cadash agrees, her eyes keen on the movement of his hips as he drags the waist of his breeches down and down. “Shall I go on about how you are as strange as you are long?”

 

“It‘s rarely in poor taste to call attention to my length,” he says, and smiles wider at her laughter.

 

She‘s still in her smallclothes once he‘s stripped bare, but it does not take long to remedy that; she lifts her hips all too eagerly when Solas reaches for them, and they‘re off in two heartbeats. On the third, he is between her thighs.

 

The noises she makes are positively lyrical. Solas takes his time, tasting her, marking her thighs with his teeth until her heels dig into his back, and then he presses his tongue once into her heat. When he takes to the slow, sweet circles, she finds her voice again to urge him on. And on. Higher, more breathless, and it‘s quick, but the last time they managed a moment of intimacy was during the long journey back from the Hissing Wastes, a week‘s travel from Val Royeaux. An age, she would call it, so he can hardly fault her for her urgency. He feels it himself, in the slow roll of his hips as he ruts shamelessly against the bed in time with her gasps.

 

The nails of her fingers drag over the tips of his ears, delicate despite her frantic, sporadic motions. He growls low in his throat, flicking his tongue at the bud between his lips, and she comes with by far the quietest squeak of the evening. Solas draws his tongue in lazy circles through the waves of her pleasure until she laughs and bats at his shoulder in weak protest.

 

“Give me a break,” she says, spreading her legs further to accommodate his body as he pulls himself up to kiss her throat, her chin, her mouth.

 

“Anything,” he answers, knowing that in another life it would be true.

 

She is sturdy, but so very small, and when his body presses down onto hers with their faces aligned, his waist is bracketed by her thighs. Her nails trace pattens over the taut flesh of his back, and he can’t help but roll his hips against her bed when they draw over the back of his neck. In turn, he presses his hand to her stomach, soft in the way her hips are soft. When he strokes and squeezes his way down to the dip of her waist, she laughs breathlessly against his mouth.

 

Her hands push against his chest, turning her head to deflect his hungry kisses to her cheek. “Are you going to fuck me,” she gasps when he bites a path down her neck, “or should I leave you and the bed alone?”

 

“I could content myself with this,” he says, mouthing at her throat. Somehow, he finds it in himself to feel ever more smug when she flips him onto his back with the ease of someone twice her size.

 

Her eyes are  heavy on his when she reaches back between her legs and takes him in her hand.

 

“If you would prefer rutting like an animal against the bed to filling me up with your cock -”

 

“Your _mouth_ ,” he growls, gripping the ample flesh of her hips and bucking up into her hand.

 

Her laughter comes from a deep throaty place and she tuts him playfully. “Not now. Still warm and dark, though. And very, very wet.”

 

He presses a thumb to the sensitive bud within her folds, and her lips part with a little gasp.

 

“You would keep me waiting for your jests?”

 

“My sweet,” she hums, rubbing the head of his cock along the length of her, “I have kept more patient men waiting for less.”

 

Cadash takes him as she does in all things: with more ease and grace than most would think, and a pleased little smile lifting the corners of her lips.

 

He‘s far too old to be bested so quickly, but her inner walls hold him so perfectly, and it has been - as she would say - an age. Solas holds her by the thighs to still her supremely effective bouncing - “A moment, ma vhenan...” he croaks - and a wicked grin stretches across her painted lips as she squeezes around him.

 

“I don‘t know what you‘re saying,” she says, entirely too smug, “but I‘m still flattered.”

 

Solas jerks his hips up, knocking her off balance. Cadash finds her balance again with her hands on his chest. There is something in the color of her cheeks, in the pleasure in her eyes and the indignation falling from her lips that stirs that ancient, timeless thing inside of him. Solas covers one of her hands with his own.

 

“As you should be.”

 

When he finally trusts himself to move inside her without losing himself completely, Cadash is only too happy to oblige. She draws her nails down his chest as she stretches to sit upright, grinding her hips in a slow circle that has his back arching, teeth grit.

 

And then, when the leverage he has with his back flat against the bed isn’t enough - sweat on his brow, hips surging up and up but never quick enough - Cadash pulls herself off of him and folds herself comfortably on her knees. “I get to fuck you next time,” she pants with far too much cheer as she peers up at him from over a shoulder. When he sits to move behind her, Solas has to spread his own knees a little wider to accommodate the short length of her legs. He slides his hands down her brown, scarred back, and her hips give a playful little wiggle until he squeezes them still.

 

“If you find the time,” he says, and leans down to scrape his teeth over the meat of her shoulder as he enters her again. Cadash sighs, long and content.

 

“I’ll make time. Remember that little detour to Val Royeaux?” she hums, breath hitching when one of his hands cups her between her legs and glides over her slick clit. “I found a shop that carried a few things I think you’ll love. And what I’m gonna love is getting them inside you - _ahh_.”

 

He sucks at the mark he’d made so much earlier in this dance, and his hips roll quicker, though his finger maintains unhurried in its path. The circles and taps are erratic at best while his other hand grips so tightly to her hip, and the bulk of his focus is on the artistry of the bruise that blooms red on her neck.

 

Even so, her gasps against the bedspread turn to higher noises, louder, and her hips rise to meet his cock and grind down into his palm in divine indecision before it’s all down, down, down, and he has to hold her up to stay inside. And then she’s coming on a sharp inhale, his name to follow as he drags her through all the waves of it.

 

She tightens around him, and it’s almost too much, almost - then it is too much, and he’s following her over. She's tight around him still as he slows and slows and stops, pulling out and draping half over her when she stretches out onto her belly. She mumbles complaints into her arm, but he heeds not one with his face in her hair.

 

Once she's caught her breath, Cadash shoves him off with a little roll, and props herself up on her elbows to look down at him.

 

"Seriously about those toys, though. Let me know when you're ready to go again."

 

Solas' interest piques, though he's nowhere near ready to rise to the occasion just yet. Instead, he meets her eyes, following the line of her arm with the tips of his fingers. Her toes curl up into his calf where it rests atop them, soothing, simple warmth.

 

Her thumb glides over his bottom lip and she smiles, serene.

 

"You wear my lipstick well," she tells him, and there is nothing he can do but laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> Title from “An Animal in Your Care” by Wolf Parade: _I fell for crime, I fell for beauty, I fell for you because you're the one that cared_
> 
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).


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